“I made you.”
I am bleary eyed and just waking up, with hot coffee and in a house full of love. Last night, over dinner, Luke and I were reminded, yet again, that we made this. We built this absolute swirl of a happy home with nothing but good intentions and while life threw us into thunderstorms. It’s the house where our friends step in and always know this is a safe, sweet place.
“We made this”, we say to each other.
My mum would’ve turned 77 today. In all of her learning of me and teaching of me, the lesson she taught me so fiercely was about the fortress. The inner strength and tower of unyielding power that you must create to survive and thrive in this world. I have that word in her handwriting tattooed on my shoulder, and I have the real life proof of the benefits of that fortress all around me.
While I mother my daughter, I remember that I am simply an extension of my mother to my daughter. I remember that I am an extension of my mother’s mothering.
When I pick up a lost dog, help someone who asks, or randomly decide to do something that others don’t understand until it’s done, I am an extension of my mother’s absolute force in the world.
When I make decisions and take actions, I do so without fear, for she taught me how to make them without being scared anymore. I am an extension of my mother’s absolute lack of fear. You could not scare her for a moment. When I think about how I used to talk to her about how to learn not to be scared (because I used to be a big old scaredy cat, of everything, all the time, every day, every moment), she would simply say:
“I made you.”
So, when I turn around and look at our home, and laugh about the Easter tree, and the massive pile of cook books, and the outside table where all the lives get lived, I know something else to be true too: Luke and I may have made this. But she did too.
Happy Birthday, UM. You made this too.
1. Keep a record of everything. Every email, text, fart, whatever.
3. Understand that the legalities are clinical, and do not care for your feelings. It may feel good in the moment to scream like a banshee, but it will not serve you, ever.
4. Understand that, if it gets nasty, you will have to apply the 2-asshole rule: If 1 person’s being an asshole, you don’t get to be one. Big tip: Not being an asshole is actually easier on you. Bigger tip: Keeping your grace is way easier on you too. People will mistake it for kindness and weakness. Let them.
This morning, I said your voice was a memory. By this afternoon, it was loudly resonating across my house, it was like you were in the next room.
It’s been a day, Dadadad. But I did the things you said, dove in where I had to, jumped away when I could, and…I may be battle bruised and scarred for life, but at least I’ll have a story to tell.
Dadadadad, the last year…oh god you would’ve laughed. I have wished so many times for your quiet catch of me to appear out of nowhere, but I didn’t realise it was already there. The things you taught me, the things you created within me, those things created the net that caught me.
My life now is a reflection of you, in ways that would make you laugh and shiver, change the subject, stomp your foot, and then laugh again.
Everything has changed. Again. You would’ve predicted it, and probably did.
Actually, as memory serves me, mom said it. She said: “he’s always watching for a weakness.”
And while I should’ve known then, you know how us foolhardy, flippant, and ferocious we can be.
But, hindsight is 20/20 and boy did you have it in bundles.
And now, now I *know* you’d be proud. You’d know it was the right thing, laugh with me over all the wrong things, and…and you’d summarise the whole shitshow in a way nobody else could. You’d connect all the dots like I have been trying to, and then you’d make them into a neat parcel I could tie up and leave on someone else’s doorstep, because it was not mine to begin with.
Come over for tea, sometime. The kettle’s boiled.
Miss you forever.
This post was originally published in 2015, on DigiKids, a webzine created by Stacey Vee & I, that encouraged parents towards guiding their children through the digital world in a safe, secure, and educational way. This post was the most popular item, and has led to much debate in online circles since. Since then, more and more online personalities, bloggers, and parents like you, have added their voice to this important online safety tip. I have updated the post, and am republishing it here, for further discussion in 2019.
This issue has come to the fore over the past few weeks, as children returned to school across South Africa. At DigiKids, we worked to help parents and children have a healthy, balanced relationship with the digital world. We hope this article assists you in making decisions around whether or not to post pictures of your children in their school uniforms online, while providing you with some reasonable alternatives:
I get it, I really do. The excitement that surrounds the very first day your kid puts on their uniform with the shiny new shoes and heads off into their classroom is palpable. It’s only natural that you’d want to share that excitement with the world, but is it really sensible?
The short answer is no.
We spend hours, if not days, of our lives, trying to enforce the rules around stranger danger into our children’s brainwaves. In fact, if anything, parents will probably admit to living with a strange undercurrent of fear around stranger danger that we try so very hard not to pass on to our kids, while angling these important talks towards them in a kind but firm manner. Keeping our kids safe is our primary motive for talking about it with our babies yet, what we’re doing online isn’t necessarily translating that into action.
Why Freak Out About The Pictures On Facebook?
Yes, you’ve got your privacy settings set to max and no, you’re not worried about how someone might screenshot something you share online. Heck, you’ll even happily check-in on Facebook when you pop in to school for that parent’s evening. Here’s the problem though, and I’m sorry, but this one is rough to read:
When you post a picture of your child in their school uniform on to a social network or platform, you are immediately informing the world that your child is at a particular place, at a particular time, and you’re not there to protect them. In fact, place those images into the wrong type of hands, and suddenly, someone you don’t know knows exactly where your kid is every day, what their name is (it’s easy to figure out) and, quite possibly, who their teacher is too. All this, while you’re happily off to work, and trusting that your kid is in safe hands at school. Notably too, images of children are often used to create rather dubious content, with image modification and similar tools brought into play.
I’m sorry, but your privacy settings mean nothing, the second a friend of yours likes that cute pic of your kid on Day One of Big School, shares it or comments on it. Why? Because it’s highly likely that it’s now appearing in their friends’ newsfeeds. Do you know every friend of every person you are friends with on Facebook? And of that friend, of that friend, do you know their full listing of friends too? Nah, I didn’t think so.
Other Social Networks
Yes, I’m freaking out about Facebook but it’s worse on other social networks. Pop a pic of your kid in their school uniform on your public Twitter timeline and hey presto, anyone on the planet can see it – no, not just your followers, but anyone. Don’t believe me? Cool. Log out of Twitter and go to your Twitter profile. There you go – all your tweets are live and public, for anyone to see, pictures included. It’s the same for Instagram and other networks too (unless you have your account set to private, which most users do not do). You can read here about other circumstances where its inadvisable to share pictures of your children online.
Nothing infuriates me more about this whole Back to School pictures debacle than companies asking you to share your kids’ Back to School photos with their online communities. Heck, now it’s all up in the public domain and – do you know everyone who likes that retailer’s Facebook page? Are you totally cool with that shop retweeting your tweet that lists your kid’s name, age and school in it, alongside that sweet image of your grinning first-dayer? You’re not? Oh. Right.
Dear marketing agencies, advertisers, companies, retailers and whoever does this – stop it. Right now. First off, be aware that by asking your fans to share their personal pictures, you are putting their kids in direct or indirect danger. Secondly, you’re being lazy. Get creative with those back-to-school competitions and ask your fans to post their first-day-back lunchbox or their kids’ first artwork of the year. You don’t need their face and personal information to pick a winner, I promise you. For some guidelines on using images of children, see here and here.
Bucking Up At School
It’s obvious too, that schools themselves want to share images of the happy kids in their classrooms on their website or Facebook page. Did you know that they should be asking you for express permission to do so? It’s true. To use a child’s image for advertising or marketing purposes, parents need to give express, written permission – just ask any advertising agency or casting group and they’ll tell you – there’s a waiver that has to be signed before they can use a child’s face in an advert. Sure, you could argue that the permission is implicit but, really, it’s not. And yes, social media platforms are to be considered as advertising mechanisms. Your school should have, by now, a social media policy and have given you the option, as a parent, to opt out of having your child’s image shared online through their social platforms.
But How Do We Share Safely?
Okay, okay, I’ve yelled enough. Here’s how you can share those cute memories safely and only with people you know:
- Set up a family Whatsapp or Telegram group for the big day back at school, and send those images directly to the small selection of people you really want to have seen them. Best part of doing this? You can snap that big day and share it with your loved ones as it happens;
- Set up a family and close friends email list so you can, as safely as possible, transmit those smile-filled pictures to the people you care about or,
- Make those memories into special gifts by turning your digital image into a print, plopping it into a frame and bingo, you’ve got the best gift for grandma, right there! You can also use services like PrintWild to turn those first-day-backs into mounted memories for your family picture wall.
- You can try a service like 23Snaps.
- If you do want to share your Back to School pride online, get creative with it. Share a pic of your first-dayers shiny new shoes, or cover their badges with an emoji. Even better, create a black and white image too, and don’t be shy with your artistic bends here – the more you can obscure your kid’s school, the better.
A Final Thought
When it comes to sharing your family’s daily routines, location and lives online, it’s better to be on the safe side.
Around the same time that we started to realise things were not going to turn out the way we planned, I started listening to music again. That must seem super-strange to read, but it is what it is. I’d been so focused on trying to find quiet for so long, that I had forgotten what noise made me comfortable. I’ve been building this playlist over the months, and there have been some constant favourites.
[Sidenote: this playlist is no indication on the state of the relationship between my ex-husband and I. Try not to read something into everything. Not everything has a hidden meaning or agenda, much like me]
You might think I’m a bit sick in the head for creating this, but boohoo, go get your own blog. So, here goes…these are the songs that have got me through, so far, two months in. They have helped me run the gamut of emotions, and they’ve helped me run into my life (and, occasionally, run through my neighbourhood in the mornings). Sure, there’s probably an extra slice of cheesy cheesiness in this, but then, I’ve always loved the cheesiest music. Maybe you need them too:
You never really think you’re going to get divorced, and then you kinda end up there, wondering how the things you (sensibly) planned for anyway, somehow ended up being the main plan, even when the main plan looked nothing like this.
You make the In Case Plan, with your partner, all sensible and serious, yet you still kinda ignore it, because it’s Not Going To Happen.
Realising it was happening, and then realising it was going to take some follow through…terrified me.
But then it galvanized me, along with a bunch of other circumstances, that set my organisational mind ablaze and – once she summons control – things just flow.
So that’s where I am. Sitting in the middle of the ebb and flow of it all.
And guys, it’s weird.
Am I deleting this whole story from my life? NO. It’s been a fundamental life experience.
Do I hate him? Not even a little. He probably hates me, but is too kind to show it.
Is this really it? Yeah, it is.
Should I be writing about it? Nope, not for anyone but myself, at the moment. Nobody reads this anyway.
Does it suck? It sucks so much. I’m having to unlearn all the habits so entrenched into my life. It is the strangest thing to go from a full-time communicator to barely nothing. I miss that check in. But I know it’s less about me there, and more about his needs, and I respect the hell out of them.
Does it suck for him? Yep, I imagine so. But I’m not about to make assumptions about his process here. That’s his, not mine.
It’s so weird that I still don’t have the words for it, and I’m still kinda trying to come to terms with it myself.
But I know one thing:
Freeing him was the good idea.
Freeing me was the necessary idea.
And while it has hurt so much,
I know it was the right choice.
The last time I got to wish you a Happy Birthday was when you turned 67. In 2010. You would not live much longer.
But how much time is “much longer”? Well, for this particular scenario, it was less than 4 months. By that time, you were weak, unwilling to give in, and yet so desperate to just give over and go to Dad. I think you felt betwixt and between, and I think you know that I never quite knew where to sit on that spectrum.
I still don’t, and because life never lets you focus on just one thing at a time, I’m still feeling that feeling, just over other things.
Mum, you’d love this part. Where all the things that happened before, come back. Where all the things that went ahead, turn around. And where all the things that’d make you giggle in the passageway, have me giggling in the passageway.
I can’t wish you a Happy Birthday, but I can wish you present. I can’t get you cake, but I can eat it for you. I can’t toast to your health, but I can take care of my own. I can’t hug you, but I can hug my family. And in all the noise, soaked in sound, and all the quiet, soaked in silence, I can still hear you within my own voice.
Happy Birthday, Mum. I miss you forever.
I’ve always maintained that parenting hit me like a brick and a cushion. A brick, because the jarring, unyielding, transformations that you go through are neither kind nor easy. And, a cushion, because there is ethereal comfort to be found in creating and sustaining a whole life beyond your own body.
That has not changed, for me. In many ways, every day feels like the brick and the cushion, all at the same time, because the little life beyond your own changes faster than you can keep up with. Even more jarringly, you have to change too.
Motherhood enabled me to centre myself, not my life. There’s a difference there, because my life as whole hasn’t always been a deeply-rooted tree. What motherhood changed within me was the ability to put down the roots and grow. Everything that came after that has been an extension of that central point. It is the thing I centre myself around, and is the ultimate motivation behind many of my choices, but it’s not the single-focus of my life. It is sewn into my character and actions, but it is not directly them. There is a difference there, and that is an item on my life list I did not expect. It is why I put the tree down, but it is not the tree.
As my child has grown up, our family has grown up. I make no apologies for making this triangle a focus point, and I have zero regrets on this. What has been interesting, however, is just how much freedom has come from doing that. As our marriage unwinds towards the future, I feel more free than I ever have before. I feel more capable and assured. I realise now, however, that I had felt those things already, but there is a deepening of it that I didn’t expect. The knowledge that our triangle is signed into law is a strange set of comforts, but also an easily visible-to-anyone-else, set of bricks that we’ve built our life upon. I don’t get wrapped up into explaining how it all fits together anymore, because it’s a little easier for everyone else. That’s cool. Less admin for me.
But with my child growing up, and all this additional sense of liberation that comes with growing older, getting wiser, and building a life…comes a whole bunch of change. Sure, she’s taller, but I’m left wondering if she’d be even taller if I had insisted on vegetables in every meal. Sure, she seems to be settling into a social life, but I’m wondering if my own anxieties as a human being are influencing her choices of friends. Sure, she seems to be a hilarious facsimile of my own person, but was that me, or was that the influence of my own mother? And, if it was my mother…am I now being more like her? Am I okay with that? (Yes, I really am. My mother was a warrior who overcame every fear to fight for what she believed in, even when her own body was falling apart, and she lost the love of her life. If I can live my life to be half as courageous as my mother, I will have done well).
Change means learning new things, and the language of letting go is one I still need a dictionary for. I may not have my own mother to call up and cry down the phone to, but I have a village of people I lean on. I have my amazing mother-in-law who absolutely goes to the dark places with me, fearlessly, and then she makes me laugh within them. I have my other mother-in-law who is a rock and an unyielding river of love. She is an unstoppable force and support that I have been lucky to have for my whole life. Nothing is ever too much for these women, and for that, I know my mother (and I) are grateful. If my mother is watching, I know she approves of the way they’ve stepped in where she could not now. The circle of friends who surround our family, and the wonder of genius minds who live within that circle, always provide light and perspective, as I try to learn the new language of letting go. While I’m stumbling around in the dark, they’ll find a candle. When I can’t see the journey, they’re building me a pathway.
And perhaps…perhaps…the hardest paragraph of knowledge to learn in this new language of letting go is this:
It is no longer about what you can teach them. It is no longer about what kind of approach you took in raising them when they were little. It is no longer about instilling manners, or mannerisms. It is no longer about the ways you showed them how to tie their laces, or say hello. All the little lessons you could teach them are done. Your chalkboard is blank, and your lesson plans are closed. What happens now, is what they do with what you taught them.
As she puts her spin on life, and delves in to learning who she is and how she is, she tries on characters, types, thoughts, beliefs, and inspirations. I see her looking for elements of herself in the world around her, and I see her searching to find things that feel true to her being. While I’ve tried so hard to offer her as many options as I can, some of them she has to find for herself. I can’t read her the whole menu of her life – some of those menu items are only for her to read.
While I’m learning the language of letting go, she is learning it too. Her spirit rallies against mine, as I untether the years of keeping her guarded, keeping her close, and averting her eyes from the world. She must look, and see, and do, and learn. But she knows that I am behind her, beside her, and… well, I’ll sum it up like this:
She runs into the world, and I am there waiting. I am supervising the sandpit as she plays into her own life, but I am no longer on the ground getting my feet muddy. The distance between my guardpost and the sandpit feels like a yawning abyss, but I know it’s just a foot in width.
She is the leaves and I am the trunk. I am the rooted tree, as she grows up towards the sun in the sky. She’ll use the tree to make paper, upon which she’ll write the story of her own life, and I, using the paper made from the tree of my own family, write out what I learn from the language of letting go. The trees of life bend to the wind, and wave to the sky, but they stay rooted, because…that’s why.
That is why trees exist, after all.